


my beloved monster and me

by chileancarmenere



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang, F/M, The Fade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 00:24:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2328521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chileancarmenere/pseuds/chileancarmenere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aveline fights demons. At least, she thinks they're demons. Sometimes, she isn't so sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my beloved monster and me

**Author's Note:**

> This is my fic for the 2014 DARBB! The title comes from "My Beloved Monster" by Eels.

The first demon is easier to see through – you have been angry on occasion, and furious sometimes, and once in a while you might say you had been full of rage, but that has never defined you.

Your sword is in your hand and your breastplate is battered and full of dents and the Tower of Ishal is flaming bright but no one is coming. The battle around you is swaying to the darkspawn. A hurlock runs up to you and you block its clumsy hacks easily, your father’s training coming in handy yet again. As you bat his sword aside and slam yours hard between his ribs, you turn your head away and shut your lips tight, because there is nothing that sickens you more than seeing the taint take hold. With the weeks the army has spent at Ostagar, you all recognize the sight now, eyes sinking down into the skull and black spidery veins running underneath the skin.

Loghain was _supposed_ to be here, he was _supposed_ to have come –

Rage might have been easier, but betrayal, hopelessness, these are more complex and you suppose a rage demon wouldn’t have understood that, how a multitude of emotions and sins can boil in a human’s heart.

The ogre shimmers in front of your eyes. One second the beast is rearing up above you, beating its chest and bellowing, and then you squeeze your eyes tight and blink and it shrinks down, amorphous and red, its eyes fiery pits. You lunge forwards, your sword changing from the chipped serviceable one you wielded at Ostagar to a shiny new blade still awkward in your hands. The rage demon reaches down with ogre’s arms and you roll to one side to avoid their grasp. He shimmers again – fiery horns on his head, baring yellow massive teeth that a demon shouldn’t have – and you strike, planting the sword directly between the demon’s eyes. He shrieks and writhes, arms sprouting from his lava-like form to wave about in agony, and melts down into a puddle of fire. You jerk back but not fast enough; the heat scorches your forearms and you curse with the pain.

“Aveline!” someone shouts from far away, and Ostagar’s ruins bend and twist, the battle sounding far away, the darkspawn mere shadows around you. “Aveline!”

“Hawke?” you yell. “Hawke!”

You turn and run in the direction of the voice – and everything reforms around you again.

 

The second demon makes a laughable mistake. It’s the same one that Hawke made herself, when she plunked the gaudy shield down in front of you on your desk, and announced excitedly that she’d found a shield perfect for you, named after you, even.

Maybe that was where the demon got it, going through Hawke’s memories. The sword in your hand this time is elegant, perfectly balanced and more a work of art than something meant to kill with. On your other arm is Aveline’s shield – this one is a much more convincing replica than the one Hawke dredged up; if you didn’t know better you might have sworn this was the real thing. This is a battlefield where you head Orlesian forces and the hunger in your belly isn’t for food, it’s for glory. The ambition eats at you; to prove yourself, to live up to the grand name that you bear, to make everyone in Thedas know that a woman chevalier is worth any ten men chevaliers. When you swing your sword at the invading forces, faceless men who don’t wear any nations’ colors that the real Aveline recognizes, your men bellow war cries and decimate the invaders. They shout your name, banging on their shields in time with the three syllables, _A-ve-line!_ and finally the name Aveline is one to be revered again, dragged out of history and dusted off only by your unceasing struggle.

Yes, that would be a fine tale. A pity it`s told to the wrong audience.

When you are presented to the emperor of Orlais – you have never known an emperor of Orlais and it’s just more evidence of sloppy work – he bends down to take your clasped hands in his and intones “Dear Aveline, savior of Orlais, for your work on the battlefield we recognize you as the true heir of our most honored chevalier Aveline. Your drive, your hunger, to prove both yourself worthy and the name of Aveline as great is honored by us.”

You scowl at the flowery words of Orlesians, made so much worse by the demon, who is probably a Ferelden demon and has never even been to Orlais. “You can’t fool me, demon.”

The emperor starts back, putting his hands to his heart with a dramatic flair. “Oh, ma chere Aveline, you wound me with such words! You are still exhausted from the battlefield, so I will let that pass.”

“No you won’t,” you retort. You slide your hand along your sword belt and discover the demon has taken that from you. No matter – you’ve punched a darkspawn into submission before, a demon should be no different. While the emperor is still pontificating about his wounded feelings and your confusion, you step forwards and put all your weight behind your right fist, connecting solidly with his jaw. The illusion of the emperor ripples from the contact point, an effect so odd and horrifying that you shudder when it reaches his eyes, bulging and receding at the same time.

Your father always taught you not to let an enemy recover. You can rest only when your enemy isn’t coming back for a second round. You jab twice with your left and the emperor shatters apart entirely, revealing a twisted, gaunt demon. It shrieks and reaches out for you with hands that have more fingers than they should. You move on instinct – a chop to the outstretched arm, stepping in close enough to knee it in the stomach (so shrunken and stretched that your knee bumps against its spine) and the final blow to the head. A high-pitched scream fills your ears and the world blows away again.

 

This isn’t right.

You repeat it to yourself again and again. _This isn’t right. This isn’t right. This…can’t be right. Can’t believe it, won’t believe it…Maker, I want so badly to believe it._

The fields are a sodden green, the sky a million enchanting shades of grey and white and silver. These are the fields of Ferelden, your new home. Mother is standing with her arm through Father’s, watching you run loose with a smile on her face. You’d forgotten how red her hair is; that’s where you get it from. She never used to play with you back in Orlais – she was tired a lot – but here in Ferelden you’re okay with that. Instead, you cuddle up with her on a thick woolen blanket, spread under a branching apple tree, while Father piles up wood for a fire. When did Father learn to cook, let alone on an open fire? It doesn’t matter. You wolf down the greasy sausages he roasts on a stick, the hot meat scorching your fingers but a big grin on your face. Mother wraps her arms around you as you lie back on the blanket and look at the stars. They’re different in Ferelden but Mother knows all their names, and she points out the biggest and brightest for you to see.

Your limbs are so heavy, your eyelids so heavy. Mother’s arms are so warm around you, that special warmth and softness that feels like home no matter how big you get.

The idea sparks in your head. How big you get. You aren’t supposed to be this young, this small. Your hair isn’t supposed to be in these pigtails. You’re supposed to be taller, stronger, have responsibilities. Don’t you remember something about that?

You’re happy here. You’re happy and you don’t remember how long it’s been since you felt that.

_Don’t sleep_ , you scream at yourself as your eyelids close. Mother strokes your hair. _So tired_ – you want to rest, just a little bit.

“It’s all right.” Father’s deep bass comes from above. “Rest, little one.”

Father would never have told you to rest.

Your eyes snap open, you push up from the ground, your limbs phasing back and forth from childish chubby ones to muscled adult limbs. You stagger but keep your feet; Mother reaches out to you. “Sweetheart, what’s the matter with you?”

Her voice is overlaid with the demon’s droning rasp. You never remembered her real voice. You only know her hair was red from your father’s stories. You don’t actually recall Orlais. She’s not your real mother.

You keep repeating that to yourself over and over again, as the sword Hawke gave you shimmers into your hand and you shut your eyes tight rather than see the demon’s mockery of your mother’s agony when you force it between her ribs. It’s a demon. It’s a demon. It’s a demon.

 

Your eyes are closed while Wesley’s lips ghost over your collarbone, but they flare wide open when he dips lower, trailing down towards your breast. The air smells a bit like roses and a lot like wet dog – Ferelden at its finest. The roses are yours, though. This is your wedding night, and the roses, deep brilliant red ones, are sitting in a vase on the corner table. The room is small, a templar’s room tucked away in the Lothering chantry, lent on protest. Wesley only got leave for two days for his wedding; damn that impatient Knight-Commander who wants him back at his post so soon. You’ll just have to make this night count.

Wesley slides his hand up your side, kissing down tantalizingly low, near your nipple which stands erect from both the cold night air and the delicious sensation. When you moan and shift underneath him, he looks up, a wicked grin on his face. It slowly fades as you lock eyes – what replaces it is a look of infinite tenderness.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers, and you might think sentiment is silly sometimes but Maker smite you if you don’t melt at that.

He reaches up and loosens your hair; usually you keep it tied back in a simple ponytail, but today your hair was braided a bit more intricately and he curses a bit trying to undo it. You giggle at him under your breath. Eventually he gets it, and runs his hands through your hair, taking great fistfuls of it as though it were spun gold.

The other children used to laugh at you for ginger hair. You would have done anything to have different-colored hair then, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything now. Because Wesley loves it.

You reach up for his Chantry sun-emblazoned tunic – there’s something deliciously naughty about ripping off a tunic with the templar sun on it – and pull it up and over his head. His ribs are lean, scarred not with sword cuts but with ice and fire burns, bruising from spirit magic spells. You kiss every mark on his chest, because you want him to know you love all of him.

In turn, he eases the embroidered sleeves of your dress off your shoulders. You smile, because your shoulders are spattered with freckles, and his favorite game is kissing (or trying to) each and every one of them. It takes him forever, but you would never, ever dissuade him.

He eases the dress down even further, past your breasts, but you lie rigid. Wesley would never have ignored your shoulder freckles without a second glance.

Wesley _loved_ your freckles.

“Demon,” you whisper, and with that word, the thing wearing Wesley’s skin looks up into your eyes. Wesley’s familiar eyes are black, sunken pits; his skin is no longer flushed pink but greyish-purple, sickly-looking, dead.

“Wesley?” you ask. The room suffuses with purplish black smoke; it coalesces around you so tight you can’t breathe and then flies apart. You catch a brief glimpse of Wesley straightening to his feet, except his legs bend oddly and he has a _tail_ and…

 

The Viscount clasps your hand in his. “…and Kirkwall is now the safest city in the Free Marches. Let Prince Sebastian stick _that_ up his…ahem, anyway, point being that it’s largely your doing, Guard-Captain.”

“I didn’t do it alone, serah,” you reply, but you feel yourself standing a little straighter anyway. “It’s the doing of the entire Kirkwall Guard.”

“Indeed it is,” he says. “But that’s due to your leadership. You can have the best army in Thedas but without good leadership, they’re lost. Fortune smiled on Kirkwall the day that you landed on our shores.”

You smile, recalling the landing that you made. Poor as Chantry mice, your every last coin taken by the men who smuggled you here, and following Hawke’s lead because you had no other real option. Hardly a glamorous start to your career.

“Is something funny?” the Viscount asks, looking at you.

“Not particularly,” you reply. “Just thinking that fortune has an odd sense of humor.”

“Aye, doesn’t it? A Ferelden with an Orlesian name turning out to be the woman who brings law to Kirkwall at last.” He turns away towards his desk and shuffles through a stack of papers there, muttering under his breath. “Ah, here we are. Meredith wrote me a letter the other day.”

You turn towards him and your shoulders shift back, your legs spread a little deeper. Unconsciously, a battle-ready posture. “What does she want?”

“She’s backing down on all that bluster she was making earlier about the templars stepping in to keep order here. I guess with the evidence mounting up that we _can_ actually keep order without her tin suits wandering the streets, she’s decided to concede. Looks like you won the field again, Aveline.”

“It’s not a competition,” you say automatically, but you feel proud warmth suffuse your veins. Kirkwall’s safety is not for sale to anyone with enough force to back up her words.

The Viscount chuckles. “Your sense of honor does you credit.” A knock causes him to look at the door. “Ah, yes. I asked both you and Serah Hawke here to discuss an important matter.” He crosses the room, pulling open the door. “Good morning, serah.”

“And good morning to you, your worshipfulness,” you hear as Hawke walks through the door, her trademark horrible sense of humor on display. You groan inwardly. “Hawke, try not to sass the Viscount.”

“Aw, he doesn’t mind. Besides, he knows I charge more for non-sass jobs.” You shake your head, turning towards her with a rueful smile, and freeze. Hawke is standing in the doorway, broad grin in place, shaggy fringe of black hair falling across her startlingly bright turquoise eyes. But the splash of red across her nose is gone.

_Why do you constantly paint that on? Especially in blood?_

_When Bethany died, and I killed the ogre, some blood splashed across my face. Maybe it was hers. I don’t want to forget her._

“Hawke?” you say hesitantly. You brush your finger across the bridge of your nose. “Your…”

“What? Is there something on my face?” Hawke immediately drew a dagger with a flamboyant twirl and squinted into the burnished reflection.

Hawke would never have done that. Hawke would have known what you meant immediately.

You shake, your limbs going weak. “Let me out!” you scream. “Let me out!”

The Viscount and Hawke dissolve into puffs of purple-black smoke, which smears itself across the Viscount’s office. The furniture goes blurry, the light from the window shrinks down into a pinpoint. You spin in panic, looking for the way out, out of this constant nightmare. “Let me out!”

 

The world comes to a sudden halt and you stagger, losing your balance and coming down hard on your hands and knees. “ _Ugh!_ ”

You raise your head slowly, looking around for the next demon that’s coming to ensnare you in illusions. But there is nothing – no dreamscapes, no people from your past. The world is softly curling grey smoke, and no one in sight.

Except…

The smoke parts ahead of you, and you glimpse a man, slowly walking towards you. He’s thin – too thin – and his skin is grey like the smoke with tinges of purple in it. His clothes are a mockery of templar clothing, they hang oddly and expose far more skin than templar clothes ever would, but are strangely beautiful too.

You don’t need to look at his face. You know his face already. You woke up next to it on the happiest mornings of your life.

“Aveline,” he says and you shudder at the voice, his voice with sibilant hisses and the undercurrent of a roar. “Aveline, my love.”

“You’re not Wesley,” you say flatly.

The demon wearing his skin laughs. “You’re right. But I’m as close as you’ll get this side of the Veil.”

“You stay one side and I’ll stay another, till I’m dead,” you say. “I don’t need your false promises. You’re not Wesley.”

“Aveline, love, you said that already.” He walks around you, and you track his movements like a deer cornered by a wolf. “But I _am_ Wesley, just like I was a darkspawn and an Orlesian emperor and the Viscount of Kirkwall and your mother. You’ve been fighting me for so long, aren’t you tired of fighting? Don’t you miss me?” His voice sounds almost human now, and you shake with the effort of holding back your tears.

“I miss you every day,” you say, your voice a thread. “I’ll love you till the day I die. But I love Wesley, not some demon mockery of him.”

The demon kneels down before you. Gently, he puts a finger under your chin and tilts your face up to his. “Wesley loves you,” he says softly. “I went through all these appearances, all these demons of every type there is, just to get you here. I knew you’d fight through to find me. And now you’re here, here with me again.”

His eyes are Wesley’s now. You stare, mesmerized, and can’t look away. The grey tone of his skin is receding, replaced with the pinkish flush of a healthy man.

“That’s right, Aveline,” he whispers. “I love you. We can be together again.”

You blink away the tears, smiling. It’ll be all right. Say yes, say yes, say yes.

Wesley’s hands are curled around yours, his eyes staring deep into yours. Suddenly, the pressure of his hands goes from reassuring to painful, his eyes squeeze shut and he throws his head back. The purplish skin tone returns with a vengeance, his body parts are suddenly misshapen and disproportionate. He howls and the sound is so unmistakably demon that you recoil, scrambling backwards.

Fenris has his blade through the demon’s back and he _twists_ , then plants a foot on the demon’s back and pulls it free. The world sharpens into focus again; you’re in the caverns of Sundermount, where the Veil is weak and tenuous. The demon’s body crumples in front of you, looking nothing like Wesley now. Fenris grunts and drops a sword next to you; you recognize your own, blood-soaked. “Come on, Aveline. We should keep moving.”

You shake your head. You meant to nod it. “I…I think…”

The elf crouches down next to you, taking your face between his hands, and you see pity in his green eyes. “False promises and illusions, Aveline. That’s all they ever were.”

You scrub the tears roughly from your eyes. You’d say you were scrubbing off blood on your face. “That’s all,” you repeat. As he rises to go, you follow him out of the caverns.

 

Years later, you wear wedding white again.

Your dress is off-the-shoulders, and the only thing covering your shoulder freckles is a lacy veil. The hands that lift your veil aren’t slender, the face you see is squarish and has sideburns, rather than narrow and clean-shaven.

And you smile.

 


End file.
